By the Window, Waiting
by kittikat8531
Summary: *Sad* When the Persian returns to the house on the lake, he finds Erik half-dead on the shore. He takes his old friend to his flat, and they wait. Mostly Leroux, some Kay. Oneshot, complete. Please R&R.


AN: My plot bunnies seem to have gotten it into their stupid fluffy heads that angst is the only way to go these days. As such, here is yet another round of the plot bunny angst vomit. If you like it, great. If not, I'm not really sure what happened either.

Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Phantom, though I do have a copy of Kay's version as well as multiple film adaptations.

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After their too-close escape, the Persian led the Vicomte and his fiancée through the extensive tunnels to the surface and saw them safely to a carriage. He watched as the pair left to begin a new life together, safe from the horrors of the opera house and its destructive ghost. Satisfied to have done that much, he returned home himself, knowing his presence would not be welcome below for some time.

For three weeks, he left Erik to brood in peace, giving him a chance to loose his terrible rage on objects rather than people. When that time had elapsed, he returned to the catacombs under the city and the house on the lake.

The erstwhile Phantom was nowhere to be found. Most of his belongings lay in ruins, and Ayesha hissed in warning from under a badly damaged divan. The Daroga carefully skirted that part of the room before expanding his search to include parts of the vaults Erik had claimed as his own.

On the far end of the lake, near the tunnels that led to the world above, the older man found his one friend unconscious on the gravel. His usually thin frame, already bordering on unhealthy, had deteriorated even further. If he hadn't known any better, he would have believed that there was only a skeleton beneath the fine clothes. What little breath stirred from his lungs was accompanied by wet sounds within. Recalling Christine's account of his recent ill health, the Daroga knew his condition had worsened significantly. He would die without help.

It was fortunate that the Persian was still strong despite his advanced years, but even if he had been little better he would have been able to carry Erik from the catacombs. The man was half ghost already if his weight was any indication, and skirting his traps to reach the carriage on the Rue Scribe took only slightly more effort than it would have on his own.

The driver took them back to his little flat without comment, having seen the Persian enter the opera house on peculiar errands before. Thankfully, the late hour kept the man from noticing the full mask concealing the newcomer's features, undeniable proof that this was the monster the police had sought in the cellars for so long.

His trusted servant met them as the door, standing aside when he realized his master had a burden in his arms. Following them into an unoccupied room, he helped settle Erik into bed before turning to the Persian. "Shall I send for a doctor?"

"Thank you, Darius, but no. I am afraid there is nothing to be done for him except rest and what medicine he already has. Feel free to rest; I will sit with him until morning."

Nadir Khan, once the Daroga of Mazenderan, had been many things to the masked man, friend and enemy in turn, but he would not abandon someone he loved to die alone. Even the death of his son at Erik's hand would not convince him to do so. He forced Erik's unconscious body to swallow drinks at many points throughout the night, hoping to revive him by supplying some much-needed nutrition. Despite these efforts, he did not stir. Exhausted, he retired when dawn came after giving his servant instructions to check on their guest as often as possible.

He woke late that afternoon, feeling somewhat better, but his fears about Erik's fate plagued him. After breaking his fast, he returned to the guest room to assess the situation. He found Erik in a chair by the window, leaning against the frame for support.

"You're awake," he said, relieved.

"You should have left me, Daroga." His prized voice was weak and uneven, but the words conveyed his message quite clearly. "I had no wish to survive."

"I couldn't do that," Nadir countered, aghast. "No matter what happened that night, I'd never abandon you."

A soft huff of his air might have been interpreted as a derisive laugh, but there was no other sound to be had. The Phantom's eyes closed behind the mask, and he remained doggedly silent when the Persian tried to press for more information.

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Matters seemed much worse as time wore on. Erik refused to take any food, and it was only after Nadir pointed out he was going to ruin his throat without drinking that he consented to take beverages, which he laced with the drugs that treated Erik's condition. It was something, and the Daroga hoped it meant he would eventually be persuaded to eat as well, but the situation never seemed to improve as he remained completely silent, responding with gestures at most and complete disregard any other time.

The only time he said anything after that first encounter was a simple "Tell me when they are married" before he lapsed into his usual fugue. Nadir struggled with his options; he knew the viscount had married the young opera singer a mere week after their escape from Erik's torture chamber, but he had no idea how to break the news to a man who was clearly coming undone. Eventually he elected to say nothing.

Hoping a different tactic would prove more effective than what he had done so far, he set a music box on the table across the room from his friend's chosen post. Its sweet little melody filled the air for a few minutes after he left, but as he prepared the next dose of medication a terrible crash echoed through the flat. Racing back to the guest chamber, he found the box in shambles and Erik slumped in his chair, breathing heavily and coughing between gasps.

"I rather liked that one, you know," Nadir said tiredly.

As always, Erik refused to respond, but the look he sent across the room was quite clear: if he had liked it, he shouldn't have put it with a man known for his violent outbursts. Knowing it would be useless to press the issue, the Daroga returned to his task and sent Darius to clean up the mess.

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It was baffling how Erik survived as long as he had, but the Persian continued to worry. If he kept refusing to eat, he would waste away to nothing despite the medications and juices he continually pried his friend with. Not knowing what else to do, he penned a desperate message to Christine and had Darius carry it, insisting it be delivered to her hands alone. Her reply came with his servant. She would come, but she needed to wait for Raoul to go out long enough for her to slip away unnoticed.

Days ticked by, horribly long and filled with concern. If Erik did not rally soon, there would be nothing any of them could do. Terrible word came more than a week later, carried again by faithful Darius.

A letter from the viscount slid into his hand as he opened the heavy envelope, but he felt a second piece of paper trapped within. Fishing it out, he discovered a newspaper clipping saying that the diva turned viscountess had died when a carriage pulled by a badly spooked horse collided with hers. It had happened just that morning, so early it had made the paper. The viscount's letter said he didn't know why his wife had been out at all, let alone in such a poor area, but after what they had been through together he thought he ought to send word to someone who had been their friend and ally in the opera house.

The Daroga sighed, long and deep and bone-weary. It was his fault again. If he had not interfered, Erik might have been able to get what he wanted from the little soprano. He would have wanted to live, and she would not have been coming to visit a man she feared in the wee hours of the morning. As before, he was plagued with the knowledge that Erik ought to know, but this time he realized he could not keep such terrible news to himself and let him continue hoping. He straightened and, carrying both his morning medicine and the envelope, took himself to the room the Phantom now occupied.

He was by the window, unsurprisingly, turned toward it as though expecting to see someone outside at any time. His stillness was such that Nadir thought he might have fallen asleep in his sleep, but when he approached he realized that wasn't so. Erik was dead.

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He waited until the funeral for the viscountess was over to make his own arrangements. Fortunately, a grave just by hers remained unclaimed, and despite its cost Nadir did not object. The least he could do after having been instrumental in both deaths was to give his friend the one thing he had always desired. He would rest at Christine's side at last. The grave would remain unmarked, according to the Phantom's wishes, but he would know.

He would always know.

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AN: See? Angst. Lots and lots of angst. Still, I would love to hear what everyone has to say, and hopefully I'll be back in the Phantom fandom sometime soon with a less depressing story. Till next time!


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